Lovely complex
by Puttefujs
Summary: Dean & Castiel drabbles. Fluctuates from happy to sad, comedy, fluff, drama, smut - and what follows close behind. Request, and you will recieve. '"As for rituals among angels, mates are the only ones to be considered profite to clean an angel's wings."'
1. Purr

Castiel doesn't usually allow Dean to do this, but right now - he doesn't really care enough to swat his persistent hands away. It has been a tiring day, and he's far off this world in mind anyway. His wings are nestled behind is back so finely, lingering there, the vast breeze of early spring rustling through the prominent night black feathers. Castiel is sprawled over Dean's lap, his front facing the vibrant green grass. They're outside, and Dean is carding his fingers in feather-light touches through the peak of Castiel's wings.

He hums softly in return for starters, something peculiar commencing in his throat as Dean absently continues. When Dean reaches down a little further - closer to the glands, Castiel happens to let a roll of his tongue reach higher notes than what he had expected. His reaction doesn't go unnoticed, and Castiel can somehow manage to imagine a smug smirk displayed upon Dean's plump, delicate lips. Castiel somehow snorts as a decent answer, returning to his earlier state of silence.

When he in obvious manners rejects Dean's inquiry, Dean just incessantly continues his carding. He's mapping out Castiels folded fings tentatively, slipping his fingers through the softness. Something brilliant eases up Castiel's throat, yet another roll of his tongue in appreciation for the kind touches. "Dude, are ya' purring?" Dean asks softly, smugness lingering in the undertone of his dapper, husky voice. "No," Castiel answers - perhaps a little too fast. He totally does.

Castiel flares his wings a bit as a warning when Dean continues his incessant touches, his fingers literally smothering into the dark of the mighty appendages. Castiel is about to raise himself when he can feel a hand on his lower back, keeping him in place. ''Dean,'' Castiel warns a little breathless, the odd vibrating continuing to commence in his throat. -

''Ya're adorbs, ya' know that?'' Dean laughs merrily, earning a soft huff from Castiel. The blue eyed choses not to fight it, in reality questioning his strange way of reacting himself. He lays down again fully, arms spread over his head as he exhales a captured breath. He doesn't lower the silent, gracious humming, closing his eyes as Dean strokes his hand along the outer base of his left wing. ''You know,'' Castiel suddenly yaps up, stealing a wily peek at Dean over his shoulder.

Dean raises a questioning eyebrow at him. "What?" He asks, suddenly awfully much aware of the current circumstances. The corners of Castiel's mouth quirks upwards. "As for rituals among angels, mates are the only ones to be considered profite to clean an angel's wings." Before watching Dean's reaction, Castiel returns his glare to what is forward again, laying his cheek comfortably against the soft grass. He can almost feel how a hot blush streaks along Dean's cheeks, freckles obvious.

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_**Reviews are highly recommended! Tell me what you like, what you don't. Have any headcanons you want me to write about? Go ahead and request. **_

_**Thank you for reading.**_


	2. I'm sorry

_''Nobody cares that you're broken!''_

Those words.

Very few.

Colored and restrained, yet so strong and affirming – but not in the way you might imagine.

Castiel is alone. He is sitting in the Winchesters motel room, attempting to occupy his flighty mind with another journal hidden somewhere in the depth of the duo's dufflebags. The duo. No longer a trio, because Castiel isn't here. He is not supposed to be here, but he is. And somehow he is not. His bony fingers traces the surface of a leather bound book, dusting off to restore its pride anew.

Are droplets of vessel contained water supposed to supervene? Is it a possibility? Taking into account how something hazy is welling up in Castiel's eyes, yes. Castiel knows about these... complicated emotions and gestures, commonly known to emerge from humanity. Not angels.

Lately, he has not felt like being an angel. Or a guardian of The Lord, so to speak. He is weak.

Pride is lost, faded into the background along with common knowledge.

His grip around the book tightens. The fluid continues to leak out of the corners of his blue, blue eyes. They will not stop – persistent- and incessantly continues to blur his mind. He feels dizzy, confused and lost in the midst of a commotion.

He is afraid.

Something tight and dry commences in his throat, molding into variants of fear and want.

He can hear them.

The soft padding of shoes stepping into the motel entrance, but not just anyones. Being various wavelengths of celestial intent, he recognizes exactly the print, the weight, the mannered shifting, the identifying of the soul.

The Winchesters.

He prepares himself to perish, body raised from the bed and duvet rearranged with a wistful quirk of mind. The book is already laying at the bottom of a rightful bag, tucked back to its original place.

Something reverberates inside his mind, begging him to stay. It is like...

They know.

But they dont.

He lingers for a moment, soreness and longing nagging him to stay a little longer, to meet their eyes with pride stored anew. He knows that he can not. But he wants to fix them, even though he knows that he can not.

He can barely manage to fix himself.

''Next time you'll be the one who—Cas!''' A husky, way too familiar voice emerges, faster than what Castiel is prepared for.

He is stuck between relief and fright.

Before he knows what direction is up and what is down, Dean is scurrying past the outer bed, door nearly burst off its hinges in the commotion.

Anger is adoring Dean's face, among other things. Hurt, relief, joy and...

disappointment.

Castiel's breath hitches, despite not having the urgency of in- and exhaling. The lump of uneasiness grows tighter, ferocious and uncomfortable in his throat.

''I'm sorry,'' whispers Castiel midst the overwhelming encounter. He manages to see the lift of Dean's eyebrows, the confusion painted in those emerald eyes. And the hurt.

He perishes to somewhere safe.

Even though he already knows that home is the Impala. Home is Team Free Will. Home is Dean.

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_**Reviews are highly recommended! Tell me what you like, what you don't. Have any headcanons you want me to write about? Go ahead and request. **_

_**Thank you for reading. **_


	3. Removed - Prioritised

**OOPS: This chapter has been removed and instead published as a prioritised story. It will achieve the title: ''One Naughty Encounter leads to more'' and can be found in the archive of my other stories. **


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